


Enchante

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lost RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-07
Updated: 2007-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is likely one piece in a short series, but I'm not yet sure what happens next, so I'd like to post this and see what you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enchante

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

There is a fragile balance in Dom's life, one that works well for him. He's always had trouble with monogamy, just a touch of trouble, because he's a flirtatious bloke, and birds (and sometimes men) like to talk to him, like to get close to him. This was true even before he became famous, back when he was just odd. There was something about him that drew other people, and even more so when he was in a relationship.

Of course, the thing with Billy is perfect. He has Ali, and Dom has Evangeline. What happened in New Zealand, and what continued to happen in Mexico, in England, in Scotland, in Hawaii, is sacred. They don't talk about it. They aren't jealous. They both understand that having a girlfriend is a good idea, and they both love their girlfriends, which is a nice bit of icing on the cake. But Dom, yes, Dom has always had to have his cake and eat it too.

It starts out innocent, of course. There are some last minute script changes, and Emilie isn't on set today, so a courier is going to have to deliver them to her. Dom is heading home anyway, and her house is on his way. Emilie never locks her front door during the daytime. They like to tease her about it, but she also tends to keep a switchblade in her pocket. Emilie is unpredictable.

Anyway, today all Dom has to do is push open the front door, and she isn't in the house, so he goes to the back patio and watches her for a moment, there through the sliding door. She is smiling at something, something in the book she's reading, and her feet are up on the glass-and-iron coffee table she keeps out there. She wears those trousers that were in fashion for dancers a few years back, the stretchy ones that end below the knee and flare out enormously. They make chunky girls look thinner, but of course Emilie already has a body to die for so they just slide down her thighs and bunch at a height just short of indecent. Her legs are thin and hairless, the calf muscles strong and pronounced at this angle. On her feet are these cute little shoes – ballet flats? – and she wears a camisole on top, cream coloured and lacy, her hair up in a ballet bun with little tendrils falling down. His hand clutches his thigh out of instinct.

When he pushes the glass door to the side, her head whirls around, but seeing that it's him she beams, her smile all teeth, perfectly straight and pearly, and she puts her feet down. He feels guilty at her innocent relief, as if she would reach for her knife if only she knew what thoughts have just been caressing his cerebrum. "Didn't expect to see you today," she says lightly, and he smiles, a little awkward, resisting the urge to shuffle his feet. He leans over instead and hands her the script.

"Last-minutes for tomorrow," he explains. She nods and indicates the other chair.

"Have a seat."

"What're you reading?"

"_Lolita._"

"Oh."

He thinks of her at twelve, just as thin and delicate, dancing in a studio in Australia somewhere, her hair up in this same bun but with pink satin encasing her feet instead of worn black leather. He imagines the strength in her toes, the way her arches would lift and her back would gently stretch and arch, her fingers relaxed and graceful as she went through the formalities of port de bras.

"Dom?"

"Yeah."

She smiles and puts the book down.

"Tea?"

"Erm… don't go to any trouble."

"It's not," she insists, standing in a fluid motion and stretching, catlike, her arms over her head and her wrists twisting inwards. Her fingers are as balletic as his adolescent image of her, and her stomach is pale and flat, a downy trail of hair leading to the waistband of those fashionable trousers.

She gives him a curious look, but he just smiles, snaps out of it, and leans back in the chair, putting his feet up. She smiles fondly in return, shakes her head, and goes to put the kettle on. He curses under his breath.

"Champagne Supernova," in retrospect, wasn't a very good choice for a ringtone, but $2.95 later he's got to suck it up and deal with his lack of foresight.

_Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball, where were you while weeee were getting' hiiiiigh?_

"'Ello?"

"Dominic Monaghan, look at you picking your phone up."

"Bills." He should sound more enthusiastic to hear from him, and he is, really, this just isn't a good time.

"Do you want me to ring you back later?" Billy asks, his voice soft. Dom realises he must assume Dom's with Evangeline, that he's interrupted.

"No," he replies, shaking himself. "No it's fine; I have a minute."

"Good. I wanted to tell you, I'll be in LA."

"LA? When?" Dom's thrilled, though his stomach is twisting for a reason he can't, or doesn't want to, identify.

"Couple of weeks. There's a con, but we're playing a couple of gigs as well."

"Beecake? Billy, that's great!" And it is; Dom's enthusiasm isn't at all feigned. He knows how hard Billy's worked for this, and how much he likes being able to play his music live. And Billy's good – Dom doesn't love every song, but he knows Billy's not half bad for a mangy git from Scotland who happens to be his best friend. He was touched when Billy told him the name, when he realised Billy named his band after one of Dom's own little rambling asides.

"Aye, we're dead excited. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, I mean I was hoping to see you there… ye ken… alone…"

Dom sighs away from the mouthpiece and mentally consults his schedule. "I should be able to."

"Dom I… miss you, lad."

"I know," Dom replies, as Emilie has just reappeared with two cups of tea. "You too."

"She's there?"

"Yeah," Dom says, for it's a lie but he can't really say, "no, it's Emilie." Or maybe he should be able to. What does he have to hide, exactly? "I've got to go, Bills. Ring you later."

"All right, love. Good night."

"Bye."

Billy calling him "love" only enhances the guilt when he contemplates Emilie's thin wrists again, her fingers curled around the teacup.

"Sugar?"

"Please," he agrees distractedly. He wonders what she would do right now if he were to kiss her on the mouth. Slap him, probably. Women are predictable in at least a few ways. "How are you finding the book?" he asks as he stirs. It sits on the table between them, and is a safe topic of conversation.

"Oh, it's not the first time I've read it," she replies.

"You like it, then?"

"Yes," she agrees. "It's beautiful. Very sensual."

_Not helping._

"I don't think I'm quite smart enough for Nabokov, but I like it," he comments honestly.

"That's…"

"It's all right, Emilie. I'm not just being cute."

"I didn't think you were," she answers honestly, and he nods.

"Your jaw's a little crooked."

"Thanks," he mutters darkly, his eyes on his teacup, "I hadn't noticed."

"No… I'm sorry. It's just that I hadn't. Really. I'd never noticed."

"Oh."

He should be able to predict it happening, her fingers coming up to stroke the stubbled line of skin and bone, but he doesn't. His skills of flirtation are rusty, as he doesn't expect it at all, and her fingers are so soft that he has an almost - _almost_ \- irrepressible urge to turn his head and bite the fleshy pad below her thumb.

"Did you ever break it?"

"No," he replies, and his voice sounds just a bit hoarse. When she pulls her hand away, he takes a sip of the tea and relishes the burn of it in his throat. "I was just born like this."

"I'm sorry, I'm being rude," she apologises with a little laugh. "Mum always said I was a curious cat."

Dom smiles at the expression, imagining Emilie as being somewhat feline in nature, wondering if she crawls on all fours when she's trying to seduce a man, if she purrs or if she scratches. His dick pulses lightly at the idea of those well-trimmed nails on his back, and he takes another scalding sip.

"You're not rude," he says once the liquid has passed through his throat, leaving blisters. "Did you have a nice morning?"

"I've been lazy," she replies with a naughty little smile, like a schoolgirl who's been caught skipping class. "Slept in till ten and then gave myself a pedicure. Do you like it?"

She slips off her shoes and lifts her heels up into his lap, just in front of where his hands cradle the cup. Her toenails are a shocking violet, but what strikes him is how soft her instep is, when he reaches out to hold her foot with the pretence of inspecting the polish. She's being openly flirtatious now, and he wonders if it's simply force of habit, if she even thinks of the consequences. Of course, it's hypocritical, as Dom often forgets about the consequences when he's drunk off his arse in a club or talking to a cute interviewer, but that's not where his mind is right now.

He imagines her toes creeping forward, past the teacup standing sentinel now to protect the region of his body that would surely give him away. He can picture it, her vixen's laugh and her dancer's toes, massaging and caressing as sure as her hands would be. He nods and smiles, gives her arch a little rub, intending to lift her foot again and put it back down on the decking.

But no, Emilie has other plans. She sighs, a very deliberate sound to break the companionable silence, and he has to keep rubbing, massaging the muscles underneath her pale skin. Leaning forward, he puts the cup on the table, and of course the movement makes her foot scoot forward in his lap. It's not quite dangerous, not yet, but her head has tilted back and her eyes are shut and she's smiling just a bit, only slightly. His thumbs move in concentric circles, a tight pattern that feels to Dom like a spiral towards inevitable surrender.


End file.
